


immortelle

by fantasticdevilry



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death of a loved one, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28135407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasticdevilry/pseuds/fantasticdevilry
Summary: There is a right way to mourn. There is a right way to have feelings. There is a right way to exist. Frey has never known any of them, and so they find solace in their garden, where flowers cannot judge.
Kudos: 9





	immortelle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tabletop game set in a Victorian/Edwardian England-adjacent fantasy world called Obsolys where everyone is a sexy sad tiefling in a sexy sad world waiting for the end of days to come. Strong emotions are seen as aberrant and death is planned from the moment of your birth.

“—but of course they weren’t even upset with me. They just smiled and offered to help me clean up. And the recipe ended up turning out lovely, when we finally made it!”

The wooden door clicked shut behind Cassius as they entered the greenhouse, slim brows furrowing slightly. Magnolia’s white curls caught the sun where she perched on one of the stone planters, rainbows streaming through the glass to play on the silky surface of her hair. She’d been speaking so animatedly that Cassius assumed she was entertaining a friend, but the greenhouse was empty. 

“...Magnolia, who are you talking to?”

The midday sun lit her face as she looked at her fiance—who, once again, felt physically stopped in their tracks by the force of her radiance. Magnolia always smiled like it was her first time seeing someone in days, though she and Cassius had only been apart since breakfast.

Standing up and smoothing her navy skirt, Magnolia answered primly, as though it were obvious, “The plants, dear, naturally.” She gestured toward a particularly beautiful Amazon lily, and Cassius had to admit that the tall flower did eagerly lean toward her, as if enraptured by her story. As if she were the sun itself. 

Cassius understood that much, at least.

Careful not to interlock their horns, Cassius rested their chin on her shoulder as they embraced her from behind. “Talking to plants is natural, is it? Are you well? Should I be worried?” they teased, nuzzling their nose behind one of her pointed ears.

It only took a moment for Magnolia to whirl around to face Cassius, and—ah. They recognized that look—she had a point to prove, and Cassius was not going to hear the end of it until she was satisfied. “It’s good for the plants!” she insisted.

“...talking to them is?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t sound so skeptical, Cassius. There’s literature to back it up. I just read the most fascinating study about it, in fact.” Her face lit up again, and Cassius felt themself squeeze her tighter reflexively. “Plants that were spoken to grew faster and bigger than a control group,” she continued, “They even tried playing music for them to great effect, though I doubt we’ll be fitting a phonograph in here anytime soon.”

“Perhaps not,” Cassius agreed, looking around. The greenhouse they’d fixed up together could be charitably called “cozy” and, uncharitably, “cramped”. They kept it tidy, stored their tools neatly, but between the number of planters, the little table in the corner, and Magnolia’s favorite rickety wooden chair, actually navigating the space was treacherous. It _would_ be nice to listen to music in there, but… “I suppose the plants will have to be content with your own dulcet tones for now.”

Magnolia’s fingers on Cassius’s lips stopped them in place as they leaned in for a kiss, prompting a confused whine. “You still don’t believe me,” she said with a frown.

Cassius sighed. “...you must admit it sounds a bit far-fetched.” Their voice was softer and quieter than their severe appearance belied, never eager to hurt even if, sometimes, the words were difficult. And, thankfully, Magnolia wasn’t hurt—she merely paused for a few moments, looking contemplative, while her fingers played idly with the crisp white collar of Cassius’s shirt.

“We’ll do our own experiment,” she decided, another grin spreading across her face. “You wanted to replant those orchids, didn’t you? We’ll put some in here and some in the other greenhouse, the one closer to your family’s estate, and—“

Cassius’s mind was already a dizzying whirl of practicalities. “There are far too many variables we can’t control to ensure a fair result. They’re different size greenhouses; not to mention the soil composition, the water quality—“

“But it’ll be fun,” Magnolia insisted.

“It won’t be scientifically accurate.”

“But it will be _fun_ ,” she repeated.

Time spent together. Measuring plant growth, watering their flowers, taking notes, arguing about what they thought would happen. Days bathed in sunshine, surrounded by green. Magnolia’s smile if her hypothesis was correct. 

“It would be fun,” Cassius admitted.

* * *

Frey wondered if their family had torn the greenhouses down. It seemed the sort of thing the Abercorns would do—ruin something beautiful to prove a point. 

For the hundredth time that day, Frey tried to reassure themself as they watered their plants in a greenhouse they’d repaired alone. _I’m safe here_ , they repeated, _my family doesn’t know where I am_. _I have a new name. I have a new life. They won’t hunt me down. They can’t drag me home._

Technically, this dilapidated little house was home now, Frey supposed. But home was wherever she had been; home was a cold tomb beneath the earth.

* * *

The gardens didn’t flourish the way Frey wanted. Despite all the sweat and care Frey poured into the soil, weeding and trimming and tending the once-overgrown property, the flowers refused to bloom the way they used to. Anemic and drab, the violets drooped, the roses sagged. Frey had never been as naturally talented as Magnolia, but surely they could do better than this? 

Surely it was the least they could do, not to disgrace her memory—?

The watering can hit the stones and rolled as a sob choked out of Frey’s chest, despite a tremendous effort not to let the dam burst. Water spilled across the floor, and Frey followed suit, crumpling beneath the weight of her absence.

* * *

“Hello.”

There was no response from the marigolds—it would have been more alarming if Frey had gotten one.

That was all they could manage for many moments. It felt unbearably foolish, speaking to flowers all alone; a pathetic admittance that they’d given into their loneliness.

But then they recalled the way Magnolia had smiled as she’d spoken to the orchids—which had, to her utter delight and constant pride, grown larger and more beautiful than the ones Frey had cultivated in silence. 

Her joy had never been foolish. They could not bear to condemn it so, even indirectly.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” Frey tried again, gently packing in the soft soil around the cheerful yellow flower’s roots. “This is new to me. I find myself wondering what to say to you. I’ve never been a gifted conversationalist. But I thank you for indulging me all the same.”

The sun shone warm across the back of Frey’s shirt, hitting their bare arms where they’d rolled up their sleeves; it had been an uncharacteristically cloudless day in Lacrimose so far, and they woke determined to make the most of it. The garden _would_ bloom. Stubbornness had kept Frey alive; now it would keep these plants alive.

“I’ll do my best to care for you,” Frey said. Their throat felt tight, though they weren’t certain why. “I apologize if it’s been lacking. Things… have been difficult lately. I suspect they’ll be difficult for a long time. Maybe the rest of my life. But it would bring me joy to see you thrive.”

The marigolds swayed silently, cordial and kind in their bright yellow glow.

* * *

They became almost content in their misery, living inside it like a chrysalis, a second skin so tight Frey could not separate it from their own soul. When they woke up, they breathed it, bathed in it, ate it, drank it. The wound hadn’t healed; the pain had simply become part of them. 

Still, Frey woke up every morning and made the choice to live with it. After all, they repeated, someone had to water the plants.

Frey wished the rosemary and basil and thyme in their kitchen a good morning each day before attending class, and eventually, before work. They ran their fingers over the orchids in the greenhouse, the deliberate and delicate hands of a surgeon caring for plants and people with the same tenderness. In the evenings, they regaled their camellias with tales from the hospital, thinking out loud about how best to treat their patients well into the night. When Frey began wearing a mask daily, stuffing the antiquated beak with fresh herbs and flowers, they thanked each blossom for its protection. 

And the plants grew, strong and healthy and gorgeous. Purple roses traced the stone path to Frey’s little blue house. Lavender and jasmine lined the fences, perfuming the air, and even the exotics in the greenhouse began to flourish under the doctor’s attentive gaze and unceasing devotion. It took years, but the magnolia tree in Frey’s front yard bloomed like nothing they’d ever seen before; it moved them to tears that first summer, the most thoughtful gift they’d been given by anyone since her.

Everything still hurt—a dull ache that flared into sharpness when something poked at it wrong, like a bad tooth. But they could live with it, and on days when they were simply allowed to exist in their garden—when they didn’t have to mold themself into the shape of an Obsolite—on those days, there was no pain at all.

“I don’t think I care much for most people,” Frey told their roses one evening as the sun was beginning to set, casting an orange glow across the garden. They whispered it, lips close to the flower’s petals, as all good secrets should be whispered. “I want them to be happy. I want them to flourish. I want to heal them and help them. All life has a right to exist, after all, I just…”

The rose saw itself in the doctor’s eyes as they searched for the right words. Unmasked on their property, Frey’s hair was inky black against the darkening sky, blue eyes concentrating as their mouth pressed into a line. At some point they’d removed their gloves, idly feeling the soft, dark petals between their fingertips. Never hard enough to bruise. 

“I just don’t _like_ them,” Frey said, and laughed at their own childishness, their silly petulance, as they shared a secret with a friend. “Selfish and strange and cruel creatures. I think if I could spend all my time here, with you, I’d be happier. No wishing my feelings away. No more hiding. Just us and the sun and the stars and the rain.”

The wind ghosted across Frey’s face, carding invisible fingers through their hair and bringing forth the scent of roses and amaryllis, acacia and white clover. Crickets were beginning to chirp; the fireflies would be out soon, too, and Frey always looked forward to seeing them.

With not as much detachment as Frey thought, the rose watched the way their mouth twisted into a sad smile; it felt the absence of their touch, warm and loving, as their hand dropped away. “It’s a nice dream, at least,” Frey said.

The fireflies floated lazily under the stars, winking in the dark, and Frey and the roses watched in companionable silence.

* * *

“How am I supposed to accept that it’s right?”

Frey wept more than one might expect, given the stony front they’d carefully built over the years. They didn’t cry as much as they used to, when they’d first moved into the house on Aldgate, when every breath felt like salt in a wound. But sometimes things slipped through the cracks, as much as they hated themself for it.

“If they’d let me operate, I know, I _know_ I could have saved him,” Frey hissed, teeth clenched, one hand gripping their hair. The lamp in their study was turned low, and the darkness outside seemed ready to swallow the room whole. Pinned insects in handmade shadow boxes lined the green walls, strange shapes keeping vigil in the dark. “It doesn’t bloody _matter_ if I wasn’t the doctor assigned to his case, I’m the best damn surgeon in that hospital!”

Quietly, the philodendron and the peace lily listened. 

“And Dr. Kipling,” Frey said with a bitter, disbelieving laugh, wiping one hand down their face. “Not even sorry. ‘We have rules for a reason’. Telling me I’m being hysterical.” They breathed through their fingers, and another mirthless bark of laughter forced its way out of their throat, like the final breath of a dying man. “I suppose I am.”

The oak desk was comfortingly cool against Frey’s forehead, hot with agitation. The peace lily observed the way their cheek pressed against the smooth surface, shining wet with bitter tears in the dim light; the philodendron bore witness to the way Frey’s shoulders trembled.

“I know I’m the problem,” they whispered. “I’ve been trying. I swear I am. But the way everyone else wants me to live… It feels like a nightmare. Like I’m awake during surgery. Why is it wrong for me to care?”

Their gaze turned upward, looking at the peace lily on the desk with red, watery eyes. Pleading. Begging. Could nature judge? Would the vine reject a misshapen fruit? Would the trees shun a bird for the shape of its nest?

“Do you think it’s wrong for me to feel like this?”

There was no response—not yet.


End file.
